Glued, I am,
Unto your porcelain hand,
For there goes my lips,
To kiss thy whiteness,
Thy ghostly and ghastly self
Within your turbulent Hell.
And, among my beastly self,
I’ve grown too old to tell,
What awaits me, far down in Hell,
Where I will sing among the loudest bells,
Not among you, your form where I fell,
To see the Earth’s shaken core.
There is adorableness,
To your eyes and gaze,
Among stars so white, among my place in cruelty,
And fiercest neglect,
Because, I’ve let myself become wicked,
In my misery,
In my frailty.
And, your beauty
Is a kind curve.
Showing life its very aroma,
And its very soil,
Where many other daughters for kisses
May never tire of what life truly misses.
Being, the lips of ruby, and never rust.